The colorful and
eclectic group of cyclists gathered around Trinity Park near downtown
Fort Worth. From roadies to fat tire enthusiasts and every kind of
two-wheeler in between, all 217 had come to pay their respects to
riders who were killed or injured while on the roads. After some
instructions and a moment of silence and prayer, the long train took
to the city streets.
Since 2003, when Chris Phelan spearheaded the first Ride of Silence in Dallas after rider Larry Schwartz was hit by the mirror of a passing bus and killed, groups all over North America and beyond rally together on the third Wednesday in May to honor fallen cyclists and help raise awareness for the rights of bicyclers on the road. In only a decade, the memorial event has spread to over 300 locations, including 20 countries worldwide.
As the Fort Worth
ride commenced, the friendly noise lowered to merely the harmony of
clipping pedals. A somber sense of pride and reverence could be felt
by all who shared the route that went throughout downtown, down
Magnolia Street, past the zoo, up University, and eventually back to
Trinity Park. Every avenue the caravan of silent cyclists travelled
on, people not on bikes seemed to take notice. Sometimes motorists
or patio diners would wave, and riders would wave back. Many curious
onlookers took pictures or videoed with their outstretched phones.
Others shouted or honked, but all the same, the rolling community
kept on going without a word spoken.
The ride itself
took around an hour. Even though many of the cycling advocates had
never met, the unity of the diverse group was present. Among the
group, several tandems rolled along with husband and wife pedaling in
unison. Two small boys wove their way through the moving crowd,
their bright orange shirts easy to spot. One young man sported
dreadlocks and blue jeans. Some riders looked like serious racers,
others appeared to be everyday citizens who were out to show their
support. Several clubs were present in large number, and a handful
of college-aged commuters cruised along as well.
Although the Ride
of Silence is in honor of all fallen riders, this year one young lady
in particular was on the hearts and minds of many of the North
Texans. Pink jerseys with the smiling face as big as Dallas could be
seen everywhere. In fact, 43 riders were proudly donning a Megan
Baab memorial jersey. The unforgettable, undying spirit of Megan was
alive in every rider who proudly wore her legacy.
The silence of the
riders was finally broken when the route turned back to Trinity Park,
and everyone lightheartedly and mischievously fetched a spare water
bottle. Just like Megan was in the habit of doing, everyone reached
out and squirted someone with love.
As the memory of
Larry, Megan, and numerous others is still celebrated, hopefully the
growing event will continue to speak volumes in the way of making the
road a safer place for those who choose to go by bike. Fellow Ride
of Silence participant Nicky Stevens shares the unanticipated,
poignant message that was heard by at least one affected bystander:
"While blocking traffic at the
intersection of Rosedale and Pennsylvania, a rather large and rough
looking guy in a truck rolled down his window and asked, 'Hey, is
this a ride for cancer or something?' (I guess because of the pink
jerseys.) I inched up to his window and softly said, 'It's the Ride
Of Silence. We're riding to honor those who have been injured or
killed while riding a bike. This is happening in cities all over the
US, right now.' A tear instantly formed in his eye. He commended us
and wished us a safe ride. I hope we had this effect on more, but
even if he was the only one, I'd say it was worth it."
And
just maybe the riders in the sky who were looking down on the long,
silent train agreed and smiled once more.
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